


Irreversible Loss

by Countryole



Category: The Gifted - Fandom
Genre: Eclaris, F/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 05:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12599612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Countryole/pseuds/Countryole
Summary: "When Marcos agreed to leave the cartel and follow Lorna, he’d done so assuming he’d get shot at less. He was very, very wrong." When a mission goes awry, Marcos learns just what kind of damage Lorna Dane is really capable of. A pre-series fic set shortly after Marcos joins the mutant underground.





	Irreversible Loss

 When Marcos agreed to leave the cartel and follow Lorna, he’d done so assuming he’d get shot at less.

He was very, _very_ wrong.

“Eclipse, _get back_!”

Dreamer yanks him away from the edge of the shipping container as another barrage of bullets hails down on them. Between them a boy cowers, barely five years old. Instinctively Marcos crouches close to him, sandwiching his small body against the container wall. He pulls Dreamer close, trying to shield her too as best he can. He wants nothing more than to douse their attackers in a flood of fire, but it’s pitch black and pouring rain; all he would do is make them sitting ducks for the Sentinel Service agents by giving away their location. 

Trying not to panic, Marcos wipes the rain from his eyes and attempts to revaluate their position, all the while wondering where Lorna and John were.

“They’ll find us.” 

Dreamer’s words are meant to assuage his doubt, but he shares little of her conviction. Her trust in John is blind, and Marcos has been in enough of these situations to know that their currents odds are somewhere between slim and absolutely fucked. He says nothing in return, frowning in frustration. He learned early on in life that false hope did little other than serve as a harbinger of misery, or in this case, death.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. It was meant to be a simple refugee extraction. Originally it was Lorna and Dreamer who were meant to accompany the boy and his father out of the port, but three days prior during a separate incident, Lorna became target practice for sentinel service shrapnel. If it weren’t for her ability, the roadside ambush likely would have left her and other mutant underground militiamen dead. She can barely walk, and despite her very adamant (and notably angry) protests, John had made the executive decision to send Marcos in her place.

Marcos, initially eager to prove himself, now stares with nauseating regret at the little boy’s father, a lifeless body sprawled in the open not twenty feet from where they sit. The man, Michael Moore, is riddled with bullet holes, his blood puddling on the already wet ground, blood spatters on Marcos’ shirt.

Another onslaught rattles off the steel panels of the shipping containers, echoes ringing off the swaying bodies of the container cranes that loom ominous above them in the storm. They are ten minutes into this stalemate and counting, and the more time that passes, the more their chances of getting out alive decrease. Marcos slams his hand against the wet metal in frustration, Dreamer flinches beside him and the boy whimpers, the sound of thunder rumbling in answer.

“We need to move,” Marcos yells over the torrent the continuous rounds and rain, “ _now_!”

“If we move we could _die_ ,” Dreamer’s eyes are as wide as the child’s next to her, convinced Marcos has lost his mind.

“If we stay we _will_ die,” Marcos grabs the boy’s arm, then Dreamer’s, forcing them to their feet. “You take Alex, If you stay on the perimeter you can use the rest of the shipping containers to get back to the break in the fence, and I’ll create a diversion to give you enough time—”

“That’s insane, I’m not going to leave you here—”

“It’s not a negotiation,” Marcos pushes the boy toward her, practically snarling, “you _will_ take Alex, you _will_ run, and you _will_ get out alive, understood?”

Dreamer jerks away from his ferocity, his biting words, her face pale. Not easily deterred, she opens her mouth again in an attempt to argue, but before she can speak their attackers barrage them anew, automatic rifle rounds whistling over their heads. Ducking down, she gather’s Alex in her arms, the tears on the boys face mixed with the rain as he clings to her neck.

Marcos doesn’t wait any longer, while the agents are still firing through their current clip of ammunition he drags Dreamer with him to the end of the shipping container, the boy hiding his face against her shoulder. Marcos eyes the open gap they will have to cross, and listens to the sound of the guns, determining their direction. There are approximately forty yards between their container and the next row of steel boxes that will allow Dreamer to reach the perimeter safely. If he can blind the shooters, she can sprint the distance easily without being seen.

He had made the boy’s father a promise, and he intends to keep it. He will make sure Alex lives.

In doing so, Marcos realizes he will not.

He pulls Dreamer close one last time, speaking hurriedly into her ear. The gunfire has stopped, and aside from the rain and ominous groaning of the surrounding cranes, it’s eerily silent. Marcos knows they only have seconds before the next onslaught starts.

“They’ll fire another volley, and when they stop again I will blind them. You have to run across the gap, and you will not stop running until you get through the fence, and find Lorna and John,” Marcos can feel Dreamer shivering, but she nods, “don’t stop, don’t look back, just run. Do you understand, Sonia?”

This time Dreamer is the one who refuses to speak, only nodding at Marcos’ use of her real name, clutching Alex tighter. Whether the water running down her face is rain, or her own tears, Marcos can’t be sure.

The roar of gunfire begins again, and Marcos steps in front of them, counting the seconds down in his head, the exact number of rounds being fired at them, like sand through an hourglass. He holds out his hands, the solar energy in his body racing to the edges of his fingers, the veins in his arms trails of fire. Hs eyes begin to glow. _Three, two one…_

Silence falls, and Marcos steps into the open, hands thrown forward. The entire port fills with brilliant, radiant, _blinding_ light. 

He cannot see ahead of him, but he begins to count again, this time seconds he has before the ill trained agents will blindly gun him down. They’re vantage point comes from a guard tower to the east, and Dreamer is running to the west. She will have time to make it to the gap in the fence he created to get them in. Their pursuers will be none the wiser, something that gives Marcos a small token of peace in these final moments. Time seems to freeze, slowing with his impending fate, his heart pounding in his chest. Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbles, the loudest it’s ever been, so loud it feels like the ground is shaking.

Then Marcos realizes _it is_.

It’s not thunder, but the hundreds of steel containers stacked like towers around him. They shudder and shift against some unnatural force, the cranes swaying in the storm, metal being raked against metal until the air is filled with nothing but the scream of it. In the distance he can hear the explosion of transformers, of broken glass as lights disintegrate, followed by the smell of burning power lines mixed with the rain. That’s when the first container flies over the top of his head, so close he can feel the wind and rain go with it.

Marcos ducks, the light of his hands dim just enough to allow him to see. The steel container careens toward the guard tower in front of him He watches, mouth agape, as the container collides with the side of the building. The air fills with screams of terrified men instead as the guard tower is cleaved in two. It only takes it seconds to rupture, collapsing in on itself, the remnants crashing into the earth.

Marcos tries to run, dodging to the ground as a second container rushes past, closer this time, and that is when he sees it. 

A figure materializes out of the shadows and smoke and rain, hands held out as if in offering, green light crackling and pulsing between each outstretched finger. 

“ _Lorna!_ ”

Her eyes are wild, unseeing, her hair slicked to her neck, soaked with rain. She reaches his side and stops, raises her hands above her, and lifts the two steel containers on either side of them with a snarl. With a flick of her wrists she launches them forward, flying into the night toward the remaining guard tower to the south. The resulting crash is met with more blood curdling wails of what can only be dying men. Marcos clambers to his feet, raising his own hands again to shield them with light. He assumes they will run, but instead of backing way, of escaping while they have the chance, Lorna stands in place.

He calls her again, but she cannot hear him. He realizes, heart sinking, that she does not intend to leave until she’s turned every last threat into rubble, until every last object within her reach has suffered irreversible loss. 

“Lorna!” Marcos lets the light relent, calling her name again, a cry of desperation. He steps behind her, his hands still hot to the touch, grabbing her shoulders, hoping to break her fixation on the target in front of her that no longer exists. As another steel death trap sails overhead, crashes just a stones throw from where they stand, she yanks herself out of his grasp, spinning and raising her hands as if to use them against him.

Lorna’s eyes meet his, their faces cast in the ominous green glow she emanates. Seconds pass, heartbeats, the world tearing open around them, steel towers toppling and cranes bent into unrecognizable shapes under some unseen force. She could have easily broke his body with any of them. She could have easily crushed him beneath their weight just like the dead and damned men now buried beneath the wreckage of the guard towers. She doesn’t though, and it’s during those seconds that she sees him, _actually_ sees him, for the first time.

Everything comes to an immediate halt. The green light of her hands dissipates, and the toppled towers of steel and mutilated bodies of cranes stop shaking. Power lines writhe in the distance, the smoke swirling in the rain as they spit and hiss white hot electricity into the night. The scream of metal and men vanishes, until all that’s left is the storm, the wail of the wind in the aftermath, and them.

Lorna sways, then falls. Marcos catches her, and she mumbles something incoherent, trying to regain her balance, her hands trembling as she clutches his arms. Marcos reaches under her, pulling her into his side, preparing to drag her out. That’s when he sees the new blood stain on his shirt, one that’s fresh, and a jolt of panic races through him. He stops their slow shuffle just long enough to pull back her rain soaked jacket, and lift her shirt.

“I’m fine—” she gasps, biting back a cry “—just a scratch,”

“That is _not_ just a scratch.”

The stitches he’d given her himself just days ago, courtesy of a sentinel services roadside IED, are bloody and torn. In their place the gash is reopened, red-black with blood. Marcos curses, letting her clothes fall back into place, his fingers wet and glistening.

“I’m carrying you out,” frantic to reach the exit, he doesn’t wait for her to object as he sweeps her legs out from under her. 

Lorna struggles in his arms, the feral, wild look in her eyes returning. Damned if he will let her bleed out and die, Marcos prays that he won’t have to knock her unconscious. Seconds before he considers doing just that, headlights sweep over them, joined by the roar of an engine. 

Marcos, tries to shield Lorna as best he can, tires to find an escape route from this new threat, but the devastation around them has blocked all of their paths. The is no way out.

_Trapped._

“Get your fucking ass in the van, Diaz!” 

Marcos freezes, and lighting breaks the sky open above them, illuminating the imposing mountain of a man waving him forward.

_Thunderbird._

Marcos releases a crazed laugh of disbelief and lurches forward toward John Proudstar. Lorna continues to struggle, clawing at his arms to little avail, and Marcos cusses her as he slides across the rain slick ground. He hands her off to the towering ex-marine when he reaches the side of the van, and John makes her look like a rag doll as he forces her through the open side door. Dreamer and Alex are inside, and she pulls the disoriented woman in with them. Marcos slams the door shut, racing around to the front, barely getting in before John throws the vehicle into reverse.

“I should have known better than to think she wouldn’t try to follow you,” John’s knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel, punching the van forward, and Marcos wonders if he should warn him not to snap it in two. The look on John’s face is one Marcos has yet to witness in the small amount of time he’s spent with him, but he recognizes it as easily as he would recognize himself— _guilt_. 

Dreamer tries to keep Lorna still on the van floor, murmuring words of comfort Marcos can’t hear, his ears still ringing with adrenaline, everything a faint echo. She’s stripping off her jacket, trying to address Lorna’s wound, when the van hits a hole in the road. Alex cries out, and Dreamer falls back against the wall of the van, slamming into the window. When she rises, hands against the window as she steadies herself, she becomes frozen in place. She doesn’t look back to Lorna, her eyes glued to the sight rushing past them.

The farther John races through the place that used to be the Port of Savannah, the more destruction they find. Not a single metal object within the port’s walls have been left untouched. They fly through the front gates, the large metal walls torn away from their foundations, folded in half, mangled and disfigured beyond repair.

“What _happened_?” Dreamer whispers.

Marcos meets her eyes in the rear view mirror, and though he tries, he fails to come up with words to describe what he witnessed. 

“I don’t know.”

* * *

“We heard what happened, or I did, I guess.”

John and Marcos sit together in the long abandoned safe, one of the many antiquated wooden tables scattered across HQ acting as an island between them. Inside the building, streams of light are beginning to filter through the boarded up windows as morning approaches, and Marcos laments that they’ve now been awake for more than forty-eight hours.

“I forget you can hear everything,” Marcos scrubs his face with his hand, fighting exhaustion. “Sounds miserable, honestly,” he adds, grinning in good humor, “but I’m really, really glad you can. Thank you.”

“I’m not sure if I’m the one to thank,” John spins a broken pencil on the table top, frowning, still troubled even after they’d made it back to the safety of HQ. Marcos nods in concession, the phenomena he witnessed just ours before still fresh in his mind. The truth is that Lorna is the one who rescued them from their impossible situation, but it’s also Lorna that could have gotten them all killed, herself included. It’s the latter of the two outcomes that bothers Marcos most.

“I was trying to radio Shatter and Harry for back up when she disappeared, which was _her_ idea to begin with,” John frowns, his regret palpable, “by the time I realized she was gone and tried to follow her, I met Dreamer and the kid on the road, and Lorna—”

“Was wrecking the port like a toddler wrecks building blocks,” Marcos’ humor is morbid at worse, morose at best.

“Listen,” John leans forward, letting the pencil fall still, clasping his hands against the table, “I know that you haven’t been around us that long, but I’m sure before today you’ve noticed that Lorna tends to be…”

“Exceedingly reckless and impulsive? Yeah, I've noticed.”

“I’m not going to make excuses for her, or say you’re wrong,” John sighs, leaning back again, “but there’s more to it than you realize. Lorna’s been through a lot, she’s seen a lot. Sometimes she struggles, more than most, to compartmentalize it all. It’s been a long time since something like this has happened, she’s learned to control it, but there are rare one-off days like last night, where she just isn’t herself…”

“By not herself, are you referring to the fact that she likes to level small cities and cause supermassive amounts of destruction, because that’s what happened. I was there standing right next to her, in case you forgot.”

“She didn’t level a city—”

“She damn well could have!” Marcos hisses, his hands making fists on the table, “she almost got herself killed, John. She almost got all of us killed!”

John doesn’t reply, doesn’t meet Marcos accusations with an angry defense, but simply stares over the top of him. That’s when Marcos can feel the pair of eyes burning holes into the back of his head, and when he turns around Dreamer is standing there. The look on her face is just shy of murderous.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, no,” Dreamer stops him, raises her hand, “you’re not sorry, you meant every word you said.”

“Sonia, it’s fine,” John stands, pushing back from the table, “it’s been a long week, tensions are high and we’re all exhausted. Marcos is just concerned for Lorna, that's all it is.”

“Concerned?” Dreamer tilts her head, eyes boring into Marcos, arms folded across her chest, “I’m not sure that’s the word I would use. Since when did a _stranger_ become judge and jury, Johnny?”

_Stranger_. Marcos winces at the word. 

“Sonia, c’mon—”

Dreamer ignores John’s attempts at dissuading her, and steps around him towards Marcos, still visibly livid. Marcos marvels at the fact that John, possibly the strongest man in the world, is powerless to stop the petite redhead. He doesn’t move, very aware that she could easily make his mind a living nightmare without him even realizing. He has enough nightmares as it is.

“Lorna is asking for you,” Dreamer smolders, and she’s close enough that she reaches out and grabs his shoulder, “but before I let you talk to my friend, I want to make one thing very clear; you don’t know a damn thing about Lorna, or any of us. You’ve been here three weeks, we’ve been here for _years_. We are all fighting for the same thing, but to do that we have to fight for each other first. It would serve you well to remember that.”

When Dreamer releases her grip on his shoulder, Marcos feels the sting of where her nails dug into his skin. His head spins, dizzy, and he doesn’t know who to blame—the exhaustion, or the woman with mind wielding powers who just very clearly put him on her shit list.

“Her room is at the very top,” Dreamer grabs John’s hand, pulling him after her through the doorway of the safe, “don’t fall and hurt yourself on the way up.”

* * *

Light flutters more fully through the ramshackle windows that line the walls of the mutantunderground head quarters. Marcos clambers up the stairwell, feet heavy and dragging, watching particles of dust dance in the dawning light around him. He stumbles once, and recalls Dreamer’s parting threat with a grimace.

He’s not sure where he’s supposed to be going, but he reaches the top of the stairs, and sees a light at the far end of the landing as it spills out an open door. With a mixture of brazen resolve, but also nagging curiosity, he moves forward.

Marcos clears his throat as he steps into through the doorway, shuffling his feet along the floor with the intention of being heard, wanting to take away any chance of surprising her. When he looks into the dim lit room, he spies her on the far side of it. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust, her bare back to him as she rummages through a makeshift dresser, wearing nothing but underwear, black boy briefs that do little to cover anything. Lorna freezes, glancing over her shoulder, and their eyes meet.

Not usually concerned with decency, he’s surprised when he notes the sudden redness of her cheeks, and as she turns away he realizes his own face feels uncomfortably warm. He diverts his eyes else where while she pulls on an oversized t-shirt. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Lorna assures, and when Marcos hears the sound of her small bed give, he releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

He turns back to her, still standing stranded at the edge of the giant room. She waves him forward, and he takes a few more steps into her world. He notes how open the layout is, the small string of lights above the mattress she sleeps on, used candles all in rows on makeshift shelves lining the far wall, a small stack of books beside them. Next to the dresser, the exposed pipe jutting out of the brick makes a coatrack, her shirts and jackets all alined. On the floor the clothes she’d been wearing earlier, still blood stained, lie in a pile next to her boots.

The sun drifts through the boarded up windows, catches her hair, emerald green against the pale ivory of her skin. She lifts a hand, the move barely noticeable, green light crackling faintly across her skin. Two candles mounted on top of metal pedestals float down from the far wall to the bedside table.

“You can sit down,” Lorna gestures to the far end of the bed, sitting cross legged against the wall where a headboard should have been, “I promise I don’t bite.”

“You do scratch though,” Marcos replies, easing forward until he reaches the beds edge, gesturing to the angry marks on his forearms left behind by her, “biting isn’t usually far behind.”

Her small grin is sheepishly apologetic, but her eyes, green and bright with mirth, belie her attempt to appear remorseful. Lorna laughs, the sound soft. It catches Marcos off guard, because he’s not sure he’s ever heard it before. It stops short, much to his disappointment. Her grin becomes a grimace of pain, her hand pressed to her side where her injury is.

He watches her, concerned. The original wound had been deep, and the blood loss significant, but Marcos feared infection more than anything. He’s still not sure how she managed to make it from John and the van to the port. 

“Did Dreamer give you anything, for the pain?”

“I didn’t ask, we need to save those things for the people that need them.”

“You’re not one of those people?”

“I’ll live,” Lorna picks up the hem of her shirt, flashing Marcos another half-smile, gesturing to the newly sewed up gash with more enthusiasm than she should have, “see, all your hard work didn’t go to complete waste. Sonia managed to restitch most of it.”

Marcos focuses on the jagged line, the angry, bruised, blue-black skin around it. He did his best to ignore the other things, like the way her underwear was riding up on her opposite hip, and the smooth lines of her stomach that disappeared beneath her shirt. Lorna drops the black fabric and it pools back around her thighs, the wound disappearing. When Marcos looks up, she is watching him, her eyes intent. He notes the way she bites her lip, brows knit, her hands balled up in her lap. 

Cautiously, as if he were still wary that Lorna might change her mind and decide she _does_ bite, Marcos seats himself at the opposite end of the bed, mirroring her position as he gracelessly folds his legs, leaving plenty of space between them just to be safe.

“Listen, I have to tell you something,” Lorna breaks the stifling silence, there’s a swell of emotion on her face, though whether it’s from compunction or physical pain he’s not quite sure. “What happened in Savannah, I… I know that it was scary. It’s not something that usually happens, it’s rare for me to get that…” Her voice drifts she looks down at her hands, balling her fists tighter still, as if to make them disappear.

“Upset?” Marcos offers, and when she peers back up at him, he tries to smile.

“That’s one thing to call it,” she manages another soft laugh, but it’s subdued. The smile she gives him in return is tired—her eyes are sad. She unfolds her hands, balancing them against her knees, palms upturned in a sliver of morning light as it reaches across the room. “Out of control might be another.”

He didn’t disagree. 

“Why did… Why do you think you lost it back there?” Marcos tries to ask the question without making it accusatory, and all the while he thinks of his outburst in front of John and Dreamer. He can feel shame eating at him. He knew, just as well as any other mutant, that certain abilities carried grave consequences they weren’t always entirely in control of.

“I’ve asked myself that question for years, you know. Why, why, why,” Lorna wiggles her fingers in the sunlight, opens and closes them, “It’s been years, before the mutant underground, since I’ve lost it quite that badly. John would remember, probably. Most of the time I don’t have a good answer to the why, though.”

“And this time?”

“This time? All I can remember is that Dreamer, and Mikey’s little boy, were stuck in there. _You_ were stuck in there, and those _bastards_ …” Lorna’s eyes close, the venom returning to her voice as she relives the moment. Her hands curl shut again, so tight her nails bite into the skin. She takes a deep breath. “When the people I care about are threatened, it’s like all my hate, all my anger, manifests into this person I don’t recognize. She scares me. She scares me because I don’t know what she’s capable of.”

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us.” Marcos rubs a hand across the back of his neck, and despite the sunlight that tries to fill the room, he can’t help but imagine the sensation of cold air, of winter. It’s something he barely remembers, and almost never feels.

“I’m sorry for what I did to you,” Lorna’s hands fall still again, and she draws them back, wrapping herself in her arms, “I never intended to put you in danger, but I won’t apologize for doing what was necessary to keep all of you safe.”

“You killed a half-dozen Sentinel Service agents, Lorna.”

“Yeah, well, it was either you or them.”

Lorna lifts her chin, her eyes steely, the thin line of her lips resolute, daring him to contest her. He can only imagine the list of unforgivable crimes that Sentinel Services must have on her, the number of men who’s lives she’s ended in the name of duty and honor. He knows that feeling all too well, of being a part of something far larger than just yourself. And yet Marcos envies her, for her unwavering conviction, for the fact that she believes in the thing she is fighting for. 

“It’s you I should be thanking,” she adds, her words quiet, almost begrudging as she observes him, yet she looks at him with something more akin to confusion than anything else, “I remember turning around, I remember you saying my name. You stopped me, before things got any worse, and past experience has taught me it’s not always that easy to do.”

“To stop you?”

Lorna nods in answer to his first question.

“Why do you think I was able to?” 

The second makes her frown.

“Honestly? I’m not sure."

Lorna, still wrapped in her own arms, shivers in the cool Georgia air that seems to permeate the building. Marcos marvels at how a woman so fearless and daring, so headstrong and domineering, can seem so physically small when just hours ago she’d been larger than life. He wonders, mesmerized in the moment, at how vulnerable she is. Almost normal. Almost human.

“Are you cold?” He asks. Lorna seems caught of guard by such a random, mundane question, eyes narrowed in curiosity.

“Almost always, and I hate it,” her lament is brief, an amused twinkle appearing in her eyes, a small smile at the corners of her mouth, “John says it’s because I don’t have a soul.”

Marcos shakes his head at her, but he smiles back.

“I don’t believe that.” 

Lorna watches with the unabashed curiosity of a child as Marcos shifts toward her, the distance between them dwindling. He’s close enough that the tips of his fingers could almost brush her shins. He cups his palms together, and seconds later light appears cradled between his fingers, a gentle glow radiating warmth between them. 

The room is immediately brighter, cozier, _different_. Lorna is motionless, fixated on Marcos’ hands, her eyes wandering up his arms, following the veins of bright, pulsating blood that travel under his skin. Her emerald hair falls in loose, wild strands around her face when she leans forward in study. She doesn’t shiver anymore, and she holds her hands out just close enough to feel the subtle heat, wiggling her fingers again, her face a picture of giddiness as she looks up at the light that dances on the ceiling above them. 

A different warmth unfurls against Marcos’ ribcage. He stares at her openly while she’s distracted, and marvels again at something he’s never really noticed before now—that she is beautiful.

“Can I tell you something?”

Lorna looks up at the sound of Marcos’ voice, she tilts her head to the side, waiting expectantly. 

“I’ve done things I’m not proud of, things that I regret. What you did at the port… It’s not what happened that upset me,” Marcos chooses his words carefully, trying to translate the feelings and thoughts in his head to things she can make sense of, “Do you know what upset me, watching you destroy that place? What scared me, Lorna? I didn’t know if I _could_ stop you. What would have happened, if I hadn’t?”

“Marcos…”

“Dreamer said earlier that we have to fight for each other, and she’s right,” Marcos looks down at their hands, nearly touching, the light still burning brightly, “You have to understand something, I’ve lost too many people in my life, people that I’ve cared about, because I wasn’t able to fight for them. People I’ll never get back. I care about you, Lorna—”

Marcos struggles to continue, his chest tight. He’s always been lead to believe that admissions of the heart were a sign of weakness, something to be quashed as quickly as they appear, before they could wreck their havoc on the fragile minds and hearts of men. It feels like a lifetime ago, those lessons he’d learned. It’s not who he is now, not anymore.

He decides that if his honesty is weakness, than so be it.

“I followed you here because you gave me a second chance, to have something to live for.  And I don't want to lose anyone this time. There was a moment back there, at the end, that I thought I was going to lose you too.”

Lorna doesn’t say anything at first. Her eyes still trained on their nearly touching hands, and Marcos holds his breath. When she does look up, she does something he isn’t expecting. She reaches forward, past the light still clasped in his hands, her fingers finding his shoulder. Her touch is warm like the light hovering between them, her eyes warmer, knowing. It’s an act of reassurance, a promise without the words.

“Can I tell you something?” Lorna echoes his earlier question.

“Of course.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” she replies, “and it’s really cute that you worry about me so much.”

Marcos’ can’t help the flush that rushes to his face, only to become worse when accompanied by the sound of Lorna’s incredibly amused laugh. Her hand drops away from his shoulder, the place she had touched now painfully devoid of her presence despite the fact that they’re still inches away from one another. He glares back at her while she beams, unapologetic, proud to have gotten a rise out of him. His eyes rolling in mock exasperation, but beneath the layers of his feigned annoyance with her, something he hasn’t felt in a long time bubbles to the surface. _Happiness_.

“Do you know what else is cute?” 

Two can play at this game. His own wily grin works it's way onto his face. His voice coated in innocence that Lorna isn't buying, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“What’s that?”

“You. In pants. So we can actually go down to the common room and get something to eat, because I’m hungry.”

This time Lorna rolls her eyes, crossing her arms with a smirk, as if she were preparing to argue that she could traipse through headquarters just as she were. Marcos wouldn’t have stopped her if she did.

However, he does stop his wandering thoughts short, and let’s the light in his hands fade. With less exhaustion than when he’d sat down, he pulls himself up off the bed. He steps to Lorna’s side, offering her one hand, gesturing to her dresser with the other, trying to be the sensible, reasonable one for once.

“Fine, fine,” Lorna relents, “but only one one condition.”

“And what’s that?”

“You have to make those breakfast tacos again, or the deal is off.”

The tone of her voice makes it very clear that her demand is non-negotiable.  


“You’re always so insistent,” Marcos chides her, teasing, and waves her forward, but she remains seated, refusing to move until her demand is met.

“I’m not insistent,” Lorna corrects, “I’m goal oriented, and my current goal is tacos.”

Marcos laughs, because arguing with her is useless, and denying her is impossible.

“Tacos it is, then," he relents.

She grins at him, victorious, and grabs his hand.

Once she’s properly dressed, they walk down the stairs together. Lorna holds onto his arm for balance even though they both know she doesn’t really need too. He enjoys the feeling of her next to him, how natural it is, as if she were made to be there. 

A small glimmer of hope begins to take root in the back of his mind, of flicker of possibility. He thinks back on their conversation, he thinks about Lorna, and the things they have in common. There is nothing easy, or simple, or ideal about their pasts, or their future. Irreversible loss weaves in and out of the fabric of their lives, as much a part of them as anything else. For all the terrible things he and so many other mutants have witnessed, it’s the loss that makes them who they are. It’s the singular thing that shapes the story of his life, but maybe, more important than anything, it's showed him where he belongs. 

**Author's Note:**

> I am constantly torn between wanting to write Lorna as the intuitive, compassionate, and honor driven person that she is, and the unhinged, raging lunatic that her bipolar disorder (combined with her abilities) could make her. So, this fic let me do both haha. I really think it's important to realize that she manages to function with an ability that could have devastating consequences if she were to lose control of it, or herself. Yet despite the very real possibility that her disorder could rob her of what little normalcy she might have in her life, she pushes forward.
> 
> It also let me explore how Marcos comes to learn that her volatile mood is more than just a one off, that it's actually really something that she struggles with as a person. Her flaw lies in the fact that her need to protect the people she cares about often triggers these acts of violence. We've seen glimpses of the mania/aggression on the show. It's her rage that get's her caught in the pilot by sentinel services, and I really hope they continue to explore it. I also think that it's important for Lorna to know that there's someone out there she can trust, and her conversation with Marcos in the fic turns into a realization that maybe there is someone out there who will always be able to try to understand her, to forgive her, and be there for her without conditions. Someone who cares.
> 
> Anywho, sorry for the ramble. Leave a comment and let me know what you think. xo
> 
> PS: I am a nerd. Did you catch the title? Yay science! "Irreversible losses are defined as demagnetization of the magnet, caused by exposure to high or low temperatures external fields or other factors. These losses are only recoverable by remagnetization. Magnets can be stabilized against irreversible losses by partial demagnetization induced by temperature cycles or by external magnetic fields."
> 
> PSS: I really love tacos so obvi Marcos and Lorna must also love. Tacos.


End file.
